


Practical Strangers

by hutchabelle



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Craigslist, Drunk Sex, F/M, Roommates, Strangers, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:11:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchabelle/pseuds/hutchabelle
Summary: Under duress, Katniss advertises for a new roommate. The first person to respond is practically perfect for what she wants. He’s also a total stranger.





	Practical Strangers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xerxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: I answered your oddly specific craigslist roommate ad as a joke and now we’re living together…

 

“Good morning.”

 

I jump and spill coffee down my front. Sputtering and shooting daggers from my eyes, I turn and face the source of the deep voice that startled me out of my early morning funk.

 

“It was,” I say wryly, “until someone scared me, and I spilled coffee on my interview outfit. What are you doing up so early, anyway? I expected to have the kitchen to myself.”

 

“Baker hours,” he explains with a shrug. “When I was in high school, I used to help my dad get the dough prepared for the morning loaves.”

 

“Your dad’s a baker?” I’m reminded again how little I know about this man, Peeta Mellark, my new roommate.

 

“He was, yes,” he answers with downcast eyes and crosses to the coffee maker.

 

“Retired?”

 

“No,” he mumbles. “Dead.”

 

“Sorry,” I murmur, but he shrugs again.

 

“No way for you to know.” He motions to my stained shirt and says, “You should change. Don’t want to be late for your interview.”

 

I open my mouth to reply but snap it shut quickly. He’s right, this stranger who now shares my apartment. I need to go. I need this job, so I can’t afford to be late.

 

I rush to my room and frantically paw through my closet for something clean, unwrinkled, and at least somewhat professional. I grab a dark green shirt and tuck it into my black pencil skirt. Taking a quick glance in the mirror, I smooth down my thick braid and slip on my black flats. I have exactly two minutes to get out the door before I’m pushing it with traffic and other unexpected delays.

 

“Good luck,” he calls as I hurry through the rooms and head to the door.

 

I send a thank you over my shoulder but don’t stop. I barely know this guy, and I don’t have time to make small talk so I can spare his feelings when I have a job at stake. _I’ll talk to him later_ , I think as I make a beeline to my car and drive to Panem Manufacturing for my meeting with Mr. Heavensbee.

 

“Please let me get this job,” I breathe. “Please, please, please. Let something go right today.”

 

****

 

Peeta slips through the front door later that night, so quietly I would have missed him if I hadn’t been curled up on the couch staring at the blank space right above the TV. I haven’t moved since the early afternoon when I returned home after my interview and immediately changed into flannel pajama pants and a faded gray sweatshirt my best friend gave me from his days as a college football walk-on.

 

I don’t say anything, and Peeta nods as he crosses to his room and closes the door. I’m not sure why I’m disappointed. I’m certainly not in the mood to talk to anybody after the reception I got from the head of sales at the factory. Even if I do get the job, it’s going to be tough to get excited about working with such grumpy employees who seem to care about nothing except a fat bottom line for the company.

 

I’ve barely finished the thought before Peeta rejoins me. He’s changed into threadbare jeans that cling to his powerful thighs and a soft navy t-shirt that makes his bright blue eyes even deeper than they already are.

 

“What are you watching?” he asks and picks up the remote to hit the info button.

 

“Nothing really,” I mumble. “Just have it on for sound. Feel free to change it.”

 

He plops down onto the cushions, only a couple of feet away, and glances over at me. “Any suggestions?”

 

“Whatever is fine,” I assure him. “I’m not really into too many shows.”

 

He flips through a few channels until he lands a local station. “News okay? I try to stay up on current events.”

 

“Fine.”

 

We sit in silence for a while as the anchor relates the day’s events with gravity laced with a touch of humor. On the first commercial break, he turns to me and asks, “How was the interview?”

 

I want to answer him, but the words stick in my throat. I’m probably not going to get the job, and months of unemployment stretch before me, taunting me until I feel like I’m going to vomit. When I don’t answer, he reaches over and puts his hand on my forearm and gives it a comforting squeeze.

 

My skin tingles when he pulls away, and I stare at him for a few moments before he turns back to the television. With his eyes facing forward, I study him carefully. He’s got a strong jaw that frames an attractive face with full lips, a slightly upturned nose, and startlingly blue eyes. His shoulders are solid atop a torso that would make most girls drool. His legs stretch out in front of him, and he crosses his feet at the ankle as he slouches on the couch. He seems to know exactly who he is, and I suddenly realize how insanely attractive he seems, this man who also lives inside my small apartment. It’s almost tiny with his muscular body crowding against mine.

 

He answered an ad I placed on Craigslist. That’s how he found me. My best friend Gale and I were drunk one night, and he teased me about both the empty bedroom in my place as well as my own vacant bed. He dared me to advertise for someone to share both but to put it in one notice. He didn’t think I could or would do it, but I woke the next morning to a splitting headache, enough regret for four lifetimes, and a voicemail message.

 

“Hi, Katniss,” it said. “My name’s Peeta. I’m new in town and saw your post online. I’m a guy, in case you couldn’t tell from my voice. I’m quiet and neat and am good at making beds. I can bake, which is what I’m guessing you meant by putting stuff in the oven, and I’m ready to move in right away. I’m starting a new job, and I haven’t had time to do anything more than check into a hotel. Temporary is fine, if you want to give this a trial run. Let me know when you can.”

 

Too embarrassed to explain anything, I returned his call immediately, and we’ve been living together for the past two weeks. He’s been true to his word so far. We’ve barely interacted, but now…

 

“Do you have to work tomorrow?” I ask suddenly, and he jumps slightly. I blush at the realization that my question was overly loud, but I stare at him until he shakes his head.

 

“No, I’m off tomorrow. Why?”

 

“Do you drink?”

 

He nods, and I bound from the couch to grab a couple of bottles of booze and some shot glasses from the kitchen. When I return to the living room, he shoots me a quizzical look, but I simply pour him some vodka and nudge it toward him.

 

“It’s been a shit day, and I could use some company,” I offer in explanation and throw back my head. I relish the burn of alcohol down my throat.

 

Three shots later, I’m feeling a lot more relaxed. Peeta’s tolerance is clearly higher than mine, but I don’t care. I’ve got a half-smile on my face, and I’m sure whatever I’m saying is fascinating. He nods along and mixes something for me that tastes a hell of a lot better than the vodka shots. I take the drink from him gratefully and let my fingers graze against his for longer than necessary. His eyes darken but otherwise acts like nothing happened.

 

I learn a lot about Peeta through the haze of alcohol. His job at the local newspaper as a photographer helps him fund his true love of art. He’s hoping to find a studio in town and get back to smearing paint on canvas as soon as possible. He’s from a small city several hours away and has two brothers whom he adores, a mother he hates, and a father who passed away from a massive heart attack a few years prior. He hasn’t dated in a while, and he admits with a sheepish grin that he’s a little bit frustrated with his social life.

 

“What about you?” Peeta asks and points his shot glass at me. “I’ve been talking for the past hour, and you’ve done nothing more than sit there and drink what I’ve given you.”

 

“And you’re very good at that,” I compliment him as I snuggle into the blanket that’s draped over my shoulders. “I haven’t been this relaxed in a looooooong time. Not since Gale and I…”

 

I trail off, and Peeta leans toward me. “Since you and Gale what? Gale’s that guy who was here the day I moved in?”

 

I nod, and he hands me another drink.

 

“We’re not together, you know,” I say firmly, but the effect is ruined when I hiccup.

 

“No?”

 

“Nope,” I insist and take another sip, hoping it will help me speak normally. “We’re best friends. Have been for years. Now that he’s a cop, he looks out for me. He ran your info before you moved in. I had to know you weren’t a serial killer or something.”

 

“Oh, good,” Peeta quips. “Seems like my juvenile records are still sealed then. He didn’t find the triple homicide conviction from when I was thirteen.”

 

Laughter bursts from me, and I admire the humor in his blue eyes. “You’re funny,” I tell him, and he smiles, pleased with himself.

 

“I try.”

 

“You’re very good-looking, too,” I add and clap a hand over my mouth.

 

“Thank you,” he answers, completely nonplussed. “So are you.”

 

“Noooooo… I’m not. I just look better with alcohol.”

 

“Well, I’ve had a lot of it,” Peeta reminds me, and I nod along with him.

 

We settle into a comfortable silence. The TV is set to a movie channel now, although neither of us are paying any attention to it. We’ve been too wrapped up in each other to care, and I suddenly have a craving for something a little more intimate.

 

“That t-shirt looks really good on you,” I tell him, and he rolls his head to the side to look at me under eyelashes that won’t quit. They’re incredibly long, so long they should tangle, but somehow, they don’t.

 

“It’s nothing special,” he drawls, and I fight the urge to reach over and run my hands across his chest.

 

“Looks pretty special to me.”

 

I’m slurring at this point. I know I’ve had too much to drink. I know I should stop, but the feeling of complete abandonment, total freedom to do and think and speak as I please, is as intoxicating as the liquor. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind, either, so I hand him my empty cup and watch as he fixes me another.

 

This time his fingers slide over mine as I take the drink from him. He stares at me as I raise the glass to my mouth and run my tongue along the lip. I swallow and watch as his eyes slide down my neck and down my body to the way my thighs stretch my flannel pants.

 

“You know that oven thing wasn’t exactly a request for a roommate who bakes,” I say.

 

“It seemed kind of odd,” he answers, and I laugh. The sound’s throaty and scratchy, and he shifts uncomfortably. I don’t miss him covering his crotch with a pillow and grin. Maybe I’m having some sort of effect on him.

 

“And yet you answered the ad.”

 

He nods slowly, and his eyes grow misty and unfocused. “Something told me to. I don’t know what it was, but I felt a pull when I read it, and now here we are.”

 

“Here we are.”

 

“Half-drunk and sprawled on a couch together.”

 

“In a mostly dark apartment.”

 

Our eyes lock for several seconds, and then things happen so quickly I can’t think. He scoots across the couch and catches my face in his hands. His lips find mine, and my mouth opens under his. He’s solid muscle under that cotton shirt, and I twist my fingers in the fabric, tugging and pulling as he kisses me so thoroughly my head spins. His breath is hot against my skin, and I struggle to hold in quiet moans at the feel of him against me.

 

“Katniss,” he groans against my neck, and I rake my fingernails up his back.

 

I don’t want to think. I don’t want to listen to the voice in the back of my mind telling me I’m being really stupid. I don’t want to be responsible or smart or cautious or anything that stops me from taking this man’s clothes off and running my hands over every inch of his warm, sculpted body.

 

Peeta’s not showing any signs of stopping. His mouth moves over my exposed skin, and his hands paw at my shirt. His palms burn against my bare back, and I arch into him.

 

“You smell amazing,” he murmurs as he runs his teeth along my collar bone. My skin pebbles, and he grunts as I shift underneath him and his hips bump against mine. I don’t hesitate to wrap my legs around him and thrust upward.

 

Our simultaneous moans sound like music, and he rocks against me. I respond in kind, and I kiss him as we dry hump like teenagers in a backseat. He’s hard, deliciously hard, and he’s found exactly the right spot that sends shivers of pleasure rocketing through me. I try to stay quiet, but, before long, I can’t stop the cries that gather in the back of my throat.

 

“Peeta,” I pant. “Fuck, this feels good.”

 

His response is to fumble at my waistband and slip his hand inside my pants. My back arches as he teases my entrance, and he holds my gaze as he slides his fingers into me.

 

“You like that?” he asks, his voice gruff.

 

I give up on remaining coherent and clamp my legs around his hand. I chase the heat coursing through me and urge him to keep going. He curls his fingers inside me, and I throw my head back and scream.

 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” I chant, the word becoming increasingly louder as he drives me to the edge. “Keep going. Keep going.”

 

He presses into my leg repeatedly, and I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so caught up in my own haze of sexual tension. He’s hard as iron inside his jeans, but it’s his hand working magic between my legs.

 

“Ahhhh,” I wail as the string finally snaps after several minutes of frenzied torture. My walls contract around him, and he continues to pump and curl as I thrash and shake. My climax ebbs into waves of molten metal. My skin burns and my blood boils, and nothing feels better than what we just did together.

 

He’s trembling in my arms, and I realize it’s taking every ounce of his strength to hold back. I will my arms to move and tug his shirt over his head. His chest—oh my hell. It’s gorgeous, solid muscle and incredibly broad. I push him off me and frown at the way his fingers glisten from my arousal. He’s been remarkably generous to me, a practical stranger, and I want to return the favor. Not that it won’t be amazing for me too.

 

It takes a few minutes to extricate myself from him, and he doesn’t protest at all. He’s a gentleman, I realize, and that makes it even more gratifying to grab his hand and pull him down the hall after me to my bedroom.

 

He closes the door behind us and draws me into his arms. We kiss for several minutes, and then I pull back and stumble toward my bed. He’s rumpled, his hair askew, and his cock straining against his jeans. His chest heaves, and his eyes are dark and glow with desire.

 

“Come join me,” I offer, and he crosses the room quickly.

 

The next several minutes pass in a flurry. Our clothes fall to the floor, and he rips the foil packet I hand him from my bedside table. We exchange a mumbled conversation, and then he’s inside me, pumping and grinding so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.

 

Peeta’s so enthusiastic it’s hard not to be completely caught up in our coupling. He’s got incredible stamina for a guy in a dry patch, which allows him to shift into new positions every few minutes. If he wasn’t so smooth, it would be jarring, but we change from missionary to cowgirl to reverse cowgirl with almost no pause in pace or intensity. The man’s a master.

 

I’m bouncing on top of him, back arched, eyes closed, when he grips my hips roughly and slows his thrusts. I wish I could see his face, but I’m facing the other way. Instead of his closed eyes and parted lips, I study the way his feet scramble against the mattress and his thigh muscles bunch and contract as he pumps into me.

 

“Peeta?” I pant, but his name comes out as a question. I can’t think, and I’m trying not to. I just want to feel—him inside me, the way my blood sings in my veins, how alive I feel.

 

“I’m almost there,” he grunts. “I’m trying to wait, but I can’t much more.”

 

I chuckle in disbelief. He’s trying to hold off, to make this last longer, to make me feel better. I glance over my shoulder at him and pull his hand around to rub my clit. My fingers interlace with his, and we stroke together as he shouts and falls apart.

 

The world shatters around me when I climax, too. The feel of him pulsing inside me and the condom filling with his ejaculate. His thick fingers wrapped around my smaller ones and covered in moisture. His inability to remain quiet as his orgasm shoots from him. My abandon as I buck on him wildly. Too much. Everything. All I can comprehend is these random sensations. No coherent thoughts. Nothing but us and burning heat. I’m on fire.

 

Finally, I slump into a heap beside him, and he leaves me by myself for several minutes. I assume he’s cleaning up since I hear water running in the bathroom, but I’m too exhausted to do anything other than float on a cloud of post-coital joy and alcohol-induced stupor. I’m still drunk, and my limbs are heavy.

 

“You okay?” he asks softly, and I startle. I nod, and he crosses to the bed. “Can I help you up?”

 

My cheeks burn, and I wonder how awkward this is going to be in the coming days. I can feel his hesitation as he offers me his hand, and I take it and stagger to the bathroom. After several minutes, he knocks on the door.

 

“Katniss? Can I get you anything?”

 

“I’m fine,” I answer, choking with emotion. I splash water on my face and wrap a towel around myself. The thought of emerging from the bathroom and standing in front of him naked is too overwhelming.

 

His face is a mask of chagrined kindness when I finally emerge. He’s fully clothed, but his cheeks glow pink, and he can’t stop twisting his hands together. He’s trying hard to pretend he’s under control, but he’s failing. I can tell he’s uneasy.

 

“Uh, hi,” he mumbles awkwardly, and I grip my towel harder.

 

“We saw each other naked,” I blurt and immediately regret it. Peeta stares at me, unsure what to say, and my face burns with humiliation.

 

“You look good that way.”

 

“So do you,” I admit and duck my head to avoid his gaze. He extends my discarded clothes to me, and I turn my back on him to redress. He pretends not to watch, but I can see him in the mirror. He can’t stop himself from sneaking a few glances as I tug on my sleep pants and ratty sweatshirt. At least the gray material matches my eyes.

 

“Look,” he finally says when I’m redressed and facing him again, “this is awkward as hell, but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t enjoy every second of that. You’re sexy, Katniss, and you are amazing in bed. I’m not a prude. I’m a grown man who’s new in town and in between girlfriends and really enjoys good sex. What happened tonight doesn’t have to again, but I won’t be upset if it does. We do live together. We’re both single adults. If you want to uh…go to bed with me another time, well…all you have to do is let me know.”

 

And with that, he sweeps from my bedroom and marches down the hall. He unmutes the television, and I hear glass clinking. It takes several minutes before I follow him and rejoin him on the couch. He sloshes some liquid into a glass and hands it to me. We sip together as time passes. At midnight, he says goodnight and heads to his room.

 

I wake a few hours later, sweaty and unable to get back to sleep. It’s no surprise that Peeta’s door is unlocked when I test it, and it’s not shocking he welcomes me into his bed with unbridled enthusiasm. I wake the next morning cradled in a stranger’s arms.


End file.
